


Burnt

by Lusa



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lusa/pseuds/Lusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he first tumbled into Hell, burnt and coughing and dead all he could think about was how afraid he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burnt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkDanc3r](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDanc3r/gifts).



> Happy holidays!

When he first tumbled into Hell, burnt and coughing and dead all he could think about was how afraid he was, the sort of paralyzing, overwhelming terror that kept him from noticing the pain or seeing his surroundings or even really registering what had happened to him. He had been afraid all his life, and it was a little disappointing to see that did not change with death. He did not even know how long he lay there shaking, because the eternal twilight made it impossible to keep track.

The landscape was dark and barren, a few rocks and scrubs under a shadowy sky, so he did not really know how the man managed to arrive without him noticing. He was simply there, almost too quickly for him to bolt behind one of those scrubby patches and stay as still as he possibly could. Even with every instinct screaming at him to hide, reminding him that it was a man not so different from this that hurt him for so long, that started the fire that killed him, for the first time a thread of curiosity broke through the fear and he peered through the bushes.

Graying hair, yellow eyes and a glittering flash of Black was all he needed to see before he realized this man was trouble. He ignored the deep voice that asked, “Are you alright, boyo?” staying as still as he possibly could like that would fix everything and just make him disappear. After a long moment the old man left and it was not until he crept out hours later that he found the pile of neatly folded clothes that had been left behind.

***

It was another two days before he started to explore properly and a week after that before he found the lake with the island in the center. Sitting on the bank was the first time since he had died he felt his spirits lift. When he dipped his toes into the water he half expected his burnt flesh to flake off and disappear, leaving nothing behind until he dissolved entirely, like a cube of sugar dropped into a cup of tea. Instead he just felt cool, wet water no different than before he had been burnt. It didn’t even hurt.

It was too far to swim to the island, he discovered over the next few days as he explored every inch of the lakebed, splashing through the shallows and building forts out of mud and sticks. Every time he looked back towards the island it became a little more magical, a little more enchanted just for being out of reach. It would be safe there. Somehow in his mind it became the one place he would not have to feel afraid.

It did not matter how long it took him to explore the lake, because time never really passed in Hell. He could always find some place to hide if he needed to but no one else seemed to want to bother with this place. When he had finally walked around the whole thing and made his way back to the part of the shore where he had started out he found a tiny wooden boat resting neatly on the sand. Black power tickled his feet as he walked up to it, and it was not until he had run his hands excitedly across every inch of it that he realized his first instinct had not been to assume it was a trap. It was obviously a toy, too small for any grownup to fit in and it must have been played with by other boys years ago because the wood was worn and the sails patched. He wondered what had happened to them, and if they were dead now, like he was.

***

He did not build any sort of shelter on the island, because he did not need it. It never rained, no one could reach him and he liked the openness of it. It was honest, it did not lie or conceal anything that might hurt him. It made him feel safe. So he slept there when he was tired, and sailed around the lake when he was not, pretending he could see shapes in the ever-present twilight clouds.

He was pretending to be a pirate when he spotted the little girl on the shore of the lake, a year or two younger than him, party dress stained with the blood from her slit throat, staring at him shyly. He grinned, so huge he felt like it was going to split his burnt face open and when she returned them smile he could not remember the last time something had made him so happy. Her name was Irene and she loved to draw pictures in the sand and always shrieked with laughter when he splashed lake water at her. When they found a doll waiting for them in the boat the next day she hugged it so hard he thought she might just pull it right into her chest. Three days later they met a boy called Tom who knew more jokes than anyone he had ever met.

He always remembered the name over every child that found the island, remembered the first time he met them and always listened to how they had died as he brought them over on his little boat. He was always the one who seemed to find the new toys tucked away in it that appeared sometime during the night when no one was looking, and he was always the one to make sure everyone got a turn. He did not have time to be afraid any more, because there was always someone who was smaller, or more scared, or new and alone. It still took him a surprisingly long time to realize he was in charge, and even longer to grasp that not every child in Hell came to find him, just those who had been hurt, who were scared, who had died because an adult who was supposed to protect them had not. Eventually he even figured out that someone was sending them to him, pointing them in the direction of his little island and making sure they got there safely.

One morning, boat bobbing on the sill surface of the mist he spotted a figure on the shore and in the same moment he recognized it as the old man from his first day he realized he had not run for cover. He starred at him a long moment then nodded and turned the boat towards the shore, like he had arranged to meet him here all along.

“I thought it was time we talked,” The man said, and of course this was who had been looking out for them. He supposed he had known it all along. “My name is Saetan.”

He stared at him for a moment, but only a brief one, realizing he did not really want to introduce himself by the name he had used when he was alive because it had been a long time since he had felt like that person. Instead he just grinned and stuck his black and burnt hand out to shake. The other kids had come up with a nickname for him on the very first day. He had never had one before coming here. “I’m Char.”


End file.
